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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28117734">The Gift of Giving</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiigi/pseuds/tiigi'>tiigi</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Possessive Tom Riddle, Sugar Daddy, accidentally, christmas shenanigans</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:34:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>16,808</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28117734</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiigi/pseuds/tiigi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“You don’t work here,” he says, dragging his eyes up and down Harry’s body in a slow once-over. “I’d remember you.” Harry shuffles his feet and, for some reason, the movement makes the man smirk. Harry’s cheeks flame. Fuck this guy.</p><p>*<br/>Tom Riddle might just be the most pompous, entitled, self serving man Harry has ever met. If only his attempts at seduction weren’t so effective.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Sirius Black &amp; Harry Potter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>224</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1815</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Tom and Harry- HP.TR, Works worth reading again and again, top tier hp fics</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I’ve been in this hell for long enough, may as well start contributing </p><p>Hope you enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Christmas party at Sirus’ work never ends well. He has no idea what actually goes on there, and he has no desire to find out, but Harry has learnt from experience that most employees head home at two in the morning, utterly wasted, and they probably don’t feel normal again for another three days. Every year without fail, Harry gets a call in the early hours from a drunk and disorderly Sirius, asking for a lift home because he can’t figure out how to uncross his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>But not this year. This year, Harry has the house to himself, because <em> this </em>year is The Year Without Booze - otherwise known as the Year of the Riddle. Harry is pretty sure he’s heard Sirius complain more about his new boss this past year than he’s ever complained about anything before. He’s rich. He’s an asshole. He’s overbearing and demanding and just plain rude.</p><p> </p><p>Most importantly, he’s a killjoy, and there will absolutely not be any getting wasted at this year’s Christmas party.</p><p> </p><p>Harry has never been so relieved. He’s had an awful day, and he never wants to leave the house again.</p><p> </p><p>He’s going to have a lot more awful days these next couple of weeks, because the lead up to Christmas is always their busiest time. Their Christmas display is pretty awesome, and it attracts even the Scrooges of the town, but it’s a bitch to organise and an even bigger bitch to run. If he has to sweep up one more broken bauble he’s going to burst into tears on the spot.</p><p> </p><p>Which is why he’s so looking forward to his night alone. He loves living with Sirius, and he’ll always be grateful that the man opened his home to an unruly teenager he barely knew all those years ago, but it’s nice to have some privacy every now and then. Harry is excited to have a night to himself - he’s got Netflix set up in front of him, a hot chocolate cooling down on the coffee table and an overflowing bowl of buttery popcorn just calling to him.</p><p> </p><p>And then the phone rings. Harry’s heart sinks. Whoever is on the other line is not going to be the bearer of good news. </p><p> </p><p>“Hello?” Harry says dubiously.</p><p> </p><p>“Harry? Harry, is that you?” Sirius shouts. The buzz of Christmas music in the background is nowhere near loud enough to warrant that kind of volume. </p><p> </p><p>“Who else would it be?”</p><p> </p><p>“Harry?”</p><p> </p><p>Harry rolls his eyes. Clearly, Sirius did not stick to this year’s sobriety pact, so he takes pity on him and says, “Yes, Sirius, this is Harry. What’s wrong?”</p><p> </p><p>“Harry,” Sirius pants. “I’m a little– a little…”</p><p> </p><p>“Drunk?” He guesses.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s the one. Listen, somebody– I think somebody spiked the punch.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh my god. Are you <em> twelve?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Riddle’s <em> really </em>pissed,” Sirius says, and there’s a comically loud ‘shh’ on the other end of the line. It would be just like Sirius to start talking about somebody without even noticing they were in the room with him. “He might kill me, Harry. Can you– listen, I’m so sorry. I’ll make it up to you, but could you please come pick me up? I’ll owe you one, kid.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sirius, you promised,” Harry sighs, fully aware that he sounds like a whining child. He casts a mournful look over his cosy living room set up, which he’ll undoubtedly have to abandon in favour of picking Sirius up and putting him to bed. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m really sorry, kiddo. But I might die. You’d never find my body.”</p><p> </p><p>“You <em> are </em>twelve,” Harry says grumpily. And then, “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The Phoenix building is just as intimidating as it’s always been. Harry - and Sirius, and probably everyone else that worked there - had hoped that it might have had a revamp when Riddle took the company over. New management usually means a makeover, and they had been hoping for something a little more homely and a little less depressing-grey-cold.</p><p> </p><p>No such luck. If anything, it’s become <em>more </em> intimidating, because Riddle is an intimidating person. Or so Sirius says. Harry has never actually met the man, but he feels like he knows him intimately what with how often Sirius comes home bitching about him. He isn’t looking forward to going inside - his first foray into the building since Riddle took over - but maybe, if he’s lucky, he’ll be in and out without ever having to see the man. <em> That </em> would be a Christmas miracle.</p><p> </p><p>Technically, nobody is allowed past the first level unless they’re an employee. There’s always a bodyguard or two waiting to check people’s ID to make sure no one slips through the cracks, but Harry has been friends with Hagrid for almost as long as he’s been alive and he knows the man will let him through without a fuss. </p><p> </p><p>He pulls his hood up against the wind as he hops out of his car. It’s bitterly cold in December but it stubbornly refuses to snow; sleet and slush gurgle underfoot and Harry winces. He’s wearing canvas shoes, and now his socks are wet. </p><p> </p><p>Finally getting inside is a relief, despite how unfriendly the building is overall. A rush of warm air warms the pink tip of his nose and he shudders, blowing into his hands. At the end of the hallway, Hagrid stands up.</p><p> </p><p>“Harry,” he says, as though it’s been five minutes since they last saw each other and not almost a year. “Thank god you’re here. Sirius has been calling every two minutes, asking if you’ve arrived yet.”</p><p> </p><p>“Typical.” Harry rolls his eyes. “I bet he was the one that spiked the punch in the first place.”</p><p> </p><p>“He’s going to have a killer hangover when he wakes up tomorrow,” Hagrid says, and Harry snorts.</p><p> </p><p>“Serves him right. I better go on up, then. It was nice to see you, Hagrid.”</p><p> </p><p>He pauses for a brief hug - Hagrid always gives the best hugs, even if they are a little bone crushing - and then hurries towards the elevator. The doors are open and there’s a man already inside; when he sees Harry hurtling towards him, he merely frowns and sticks a hand out to stop the doors from closing. </p><p> </p><p>“Thanks,” Harry offers, although the man doesn’t look at him. Harry bristles a little and his shoulders stiffen. Alright then. He can be rude if he wants to be, Christmas spirit be damned. </p><p> </p><p>It’s an awkward elevator ride. Harry fidgets the whole way to the top floor, painfully aware of how still and silent the man next to him is. By the time the lift finally comes to a stop, he’s thoroughly uncomfortable and brimming with irritation at the evening’s turn of events. Sirius is <em> really </em> going to owe him one now.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t bother saying goodbye to the man as he goes to leave. He’s drawn to the telltale sounds of laughter and distant Christmas music, but before he can get very far a hand latches around his wrist, gentle but firm, and Harry freezes.</p><p> </p><p>The man is looking right at him, eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed. He’s attractive, Harry thinks absently, and hates the way his face heats at the observation. Neatly coiffed hair and an expensive suit almost make up for the derisive sneer on his face.</p><p> </p><p>“What?” Harry says. He tugs on his wrist a little and the man blinks, let’s go as if he hadn’t even realised he was still holding on. His touch leaves a burning circle around Harry’s wrist like a brand.</p><p> </p><p>“Did Hagrid let you in?” He asks suddenly, and Harry blanches. It’s against company policy to let in random strangers off the street, probably even more so at two in the morning, and the man could be in serious trouble if this prick reported back to Riddle. Harry presses his lips into a thin line and crosses his arms stubbornly. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m just here to pick someone up,” he explains. His skin prickles with the way this man is looking at him and he rubs the back of his neck to calm down. He looks ridiculously out of place here, in tracksuits and a hoodie and a pair of tatty blue sneakers that he got when he was fifteen. Next to Harry, the man seems positively regal and clearly he’s thinking the same thing.</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t work here,” he says, dragging his eyes up and down Harry’s body in a slow once-over. “I’d remember you.” Harry shuffles his feet and, for some reason, the movement makes the man smirk. Harry’s cheeks flame. <em> Fuck </em> this guy.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll just be in and out,” Harry says quietly. “I won’t cause any problems, alright?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sure you won’t,” the man mutters. He seems to be weighing something up, and Harry knows when he comes to a decision because his eyes snap back into sharp focus and he holds out his arm, a bizarre offering. “I’ll accompany you. I was heading that way myself.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry considers objecting, telling the man that he already knows his way around the building, but it probably wouldn’t do to tell him that this is not Hagrid’s first transgression so he keeps his mouth shut. He lays his hand over the back of the man’s wrist and feels a little pretentious doing so.</p><p> </p><p>“A shame you’ve had to come all the way out, Mr…” </p><p> </p><p>It takes an embarrassingly long moment for Harry to realise that the man is waiting for his name.</p><p> </p><p>“Potter,” he blurts out, far more information than he’d been planning to give. “Harry.”</p><p> </p><p>“Harry Potter.” He says it slowly, purposefully, tasting the words on his tongue and testing the way they feel in his mouth. Harry feels a swoop of something warm and enticing in his belly and very firmly pushes all bad-thoughts away. He’s just here to collect Sirius, after all.</p><p> </p><p>“And you?” Harry asks, tone vaguely challenging. He tilts his chin up and sees Tom’s eyes flash with barely contained glee. He hasn’t expected such a visceral reaction.</p><p> </p><p>“Tom,” he says, and offers nothing else.</p><p> </p><p>“Right. Okay.”</p><p> </p><p>They walk in silence some more. Harry should probably jerk away from Tom’s arm, but he likes the way the silky material feels under his fingertips. He’s aware of Tom watching him through narrowed eyes, assessing him. It’s unsettling, but he won’t allow himself to cringe away or falter. He keeps his jaw set tight and stares straight ahead.</p><p> </p><p>“Who are you here to collect?” Tom asks, suspiciously casual. “Anyone I’d know?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know who you know,” Harry snaps, barely concealing his panic. He’s pissed at Sirius, but he doesn’t want to draw attention to him and get him in trouble. They’ve been struggling with rent enough as it is - Harry leaving school had helped; he’s managed to get a few odd shifts at cafes and bars but nothing steady enough to make a comfortable difference - and the last thing they need is Sirius wallowing in dismal unemployment.</p><p> </p><p>But Tom only laughs, a deep, rich laugh like melted chocolate. Harry scowls, because it should <em> not </em>be so arousing just listening to someone laugh. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you always this prickly?”</p><p> </p><p>Harry’s mouth falls open. He’s used to being insulted to his face, what with his childhood being what it was, but he thought fancy businessmen like this might have more restraint. Maybe it’s only worth being polite to other people in suits. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m <em> not </em>prickly.” Harry glowers, and then turns away sharply when he realises that he might be proving Tom’s point. “It’s just late, and I’m tired and pissed off that I have to play babysitter for a grown man. Alright?”</p><p> </p><p>Tom is silent for a moment, eyes narrowed and calculating. Then he asks, with a laughable faux nonchalance, “Trouble in paradise?”</p><p> </p><p>Harry is so horrified by the implication that his head whips around to glare at Tom, and in a rare display of clumsiness, bashes his shoulder into the doorframe. He had been paying so little attention to his surroundings, caught up in Tom and his infuriatingly handsome face, that he had tried to fit through the doorway at the same time as Tom. He hisses through his teeth and grabs his arm, where he’s sure he’ll have a bruise tomorrow. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you alright?” Tom asks, body turned to face him completely. He’s suddenly very intense, eyes focused, mouth set in a determined line. Harry startles when something brushes his hand, but Tom’s fingers are so surprisingly gentle that he doesn’t mind showing the man his arm.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m fine,” he says softly, overwhelmed. “It’s just a bruise.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hmm,” Tom says, which isn’t an answer but still somehow reeks of finality. His hand slips down further to cup Harry’s elbow, and he isn’t can’t keep up the excuse of checking for injuries anymore but Harry still lets it happen. He doesn’t know why. He’s too breathless to complain - Tom’s touch is heady and a fog of arousal clouds his mind. It comes so unexpectedly that Harry inhales sharply and jerks backwards, out of Tom’s grip. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m <em> fine,” </em>he says again, and feels a flush creep up his neck. </p><p> </p><p>Tom takes half a step backwards like he knows his close proximity makes Harry nervous. He doesn’t look flustered at all, his suit isn’t rumpled and his hair is still held perfectly in place. He’s a gorgeous prick and Harry hates him instantly. </p><p> </p><p>Except that, clearly, he doesn’t.</p><p> </p><p>“Harry?”</p><p> </p><p>Sirius’ voice takes them both by surprise, and Harry jumps. He probably looks like he did when he was a kid, and Sirius caught him doing something he wasn’t supposed to do. Harry wonders if the guilt is written clearly on his face, or if Tom won’t be able to tell. God, he hopes Tom can’t tell. It’s not like Harry <em> cares. </em></p><p> </p><p>“Mr Black,” Tom says before Harry can think of an appropriate response, and there is a definite curl to his lip that has both Harry and Sirius bristling.</p><p> </p><p>“Mr Riddle,” Sirius says back.</p><p> </p><p><em> Riddle, </em> Harry thinks. <em> Tom Riddle. As in, CEO-of-the-company Tom Riddle. Holy </em>fuck.</p><p> </p><p>“We’re leaving,” Harry blurts out, the panic in his voice verging on hysterical. “Sirius, come on. We have to go.”</p><p> </p><p>Tom turns to Harry again with an arched eyebrow and, okay, that is <em> definitely </em>a sneer. “Sirius Black?” He says, and whilst Harry doesn’t know exactly what he’s asking, he can tell it’s something offensive.</p><p> </p><p>“Nice to have met you,” he says icily, secretly proud he was able to keep his composure long enough to get the words out. “But we have to go. Sirius, come <em> on.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Sirius stumbles forward a few feet and Harry rushes forward to catch him so he doesn’t faceplant at Tom’s feet. A cocktail of guilt and irritation churns in his stomach - he’d feel pretty bad if Sirius ended up hurting himself, but he’s still annoyed that he had to come out in the first place, and now he’s annoyed that he’s got a crush on Insufferable Tom Riddle, the boss from hell. All in all, he is not having a good evening.</p><p> </p><p>“Goodnight, Mr Black,” Tom sniffs. “I trust you’ll be in bright and early tomorrow morning.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sir, yes sir.” Sirius couples the words with a mocking salute, and Harry elbows him in the side. Harry doesn’t want the idiot to get himself fired on his watch.</p><p> </p><p>A muscle in Tom’s jaw tics, the only indication of his bad temper, but for whatever reason his whole face changes when his gaze slides to Harry. His eyes soften and his lips twist into a smile.</p><p> </p><p>“Enchanted to meet you,” he says, and even inclines his head in some ridiculous bow. “Until next time, Harry.”</p><p> </p><p>Then he brushes past Sirius without another word, his heels clicking against the floor as he walks. Harry doesn’t mean to, but he strains to hear anything else, to see if the music will dim or if Tom will break up the party.</p><p> </p><p>But Sirius is already starting to droop in his arms and Harry doesn’t want to get home too late, so he heaves a sigh and trudges back towards the elevator.</p><p> </p><p>“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you home. And tomorrow we can have a <em> serious </em>talk about the importance of keeping your promises.”</p><p> </p><p>Sirius hiccups. Harry rolls his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“What’d he want?” Sirius asks suddenly, way too loud in Harry’s ear.</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“What did Riddle want?”</p><p> </p><p>Harry bites his lip. What <em> did </em>Tom want? He hadn’t asked for anything, except to know who Harry was there for, and he hadn’t flown into a rage when Harry had avoided answering. At the end, it seemed like he was seconds away from kissing Harry’s hand. It was almost like he just wanted to talk…</p><p> </p><p>But that doesn’t make any sense. Everything Sirius says about Riddle makes him sound like the world’s biggest asshole, and Harry doesn’t think some corporate yuppie like him would hang around at gone two in the morning for a friendly chat. </p><p> </p><p>No, he probably had an evil plan, and Harry probably escaped it by getting out of there early. He’ll just have to stay away from Tom, from the building, from the entire street if necessary, because he is Harry Potter, and men in suits don’t frighten him.</p><p> </p><p>No matter how handsome they are.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p>“Harry?”</p><p> </p><p>“Kitchen!” He calls back, not turning away from the oven. He’s not going to risk burning tonight’s dinner when he’s worked on it all afternoon. </p><p> </p><p>Sirius appears a moment later, smiling fondly at the sight of Harry in a hoodie and jeans. He probably looks just like his father, Harry thinks, and the thought warms him. Sirius leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms over his chest.</p><p> </p><p>“Bad day?” Harry asks.</p><p> </p><p>“Average day,” Sirius answers, giving a half hearted shrug. Then his mouth twists unpleasantly and he eyes Harry sidelong. “Do my memories deceive me, or were you talking to Riddle the other day?”</p><p> </p><p>Harry blanches. Trying his very best not to show his discomfort on his face he turns back to the hob and stirs the soup. “You mean at your Christmas party?” He asks casually.</p><p> </p><p>“Mhm. Unless you’ve been sneaking in during my lunch break to speak to him?”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous,” Harry scoffs. “I had– a very brief conversation with him, before I knew who he was. I thought he was very rude.”</p><p> </p><p>Sirius relaxes. “He is,” he agrees, eager to jump on any Riddle-bashing opportunity. </p><p> </p><p>Harry should let him, should be thankful for the distraction and push Tom out from his mind, but he can’t. Curiosity burns in his chest and ties knots in his stomach. “Why do you ask?” He says, very casually. </p><p> </p><p>Sirius pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs deeply. “He cornered me this morning,” Sirius explains, and Harry looks round, alarmed. “Came and sat by my cubicle. He… asked about you.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry forces himself to act natural. Sirius would feel so betrayed if he knew about Harry’s pathetic schoolboy crush, so he does his best to seem unaffected. Tom asked about him? What did he want to know? And <em> why? </em></p><p> </p><p>“What did you tell him?” Harry asks eventually. </p><p> </p><p>“Not much, don’t worry.” Sirius flashes him a grin, completely misunderstanding. “Only that you live with me, and where you’re working. He seemed very interested. I wouldn’t have told him anything if I could have gotten away with it, but…” he spreads his hands helplessly, and Harry smiles.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s alright, Sirius. What harm can he do with that, anyway? Now, come sit down. I made soup.”</p><p> </p><p>Sirius’ eyes flick down to the saucepan, and then back up to Harry with a wary caution. “Right…” he says slowly. “Should I order pizza?”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>As it turns out, Riddle can do a lot of damage with not much information. Harry finds this out the next day.</p><p> </p><p>He is balancing precariously on a small stool, stretched onto his tiptoes to try and hang a straggly piece of tinsel over the door to the men’s bathroom, when somebody sneaks up behind him. He doesn’t hear them coming, nor does he sense the looming presence at his back.</p><p> </p><p>“Excuse me,” somebody says, voice sinfully low and rumbly, right into his ear. Harry shrieks and completely loses his balance. His foot slips and he topples forward. He would have smacked his nose into the wall as well, if it wasn’t for the sneak-attacker catching him around the waist with two strong arms.</p><p> </p><p>Harry holds his breath. He finds his footing and, when the customer still doesn’t let go, he turns around in their arms.</p><p> </p><p>Of course, Tom Riddle is staring back at him. And, of course, he looks stupidly attractive. He’s wearing a deep green sweater and black slacks. A stray curl hangs over his forehead and the watch he’s wearing - the one Harry can feel pressing into his lower back, where his spine dips - probably costs more than Harry makes a year. He smells <em> fantastic, </em>Harry is distressed to note, like spices and cinnamon and Christmas. Double fuck this guy.</p><p> </p><p>“Harry,” Tom murmurs. “Fancy seeing you here.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry gulps and shoves Tom’s hands off him. One had been curled around his waist, the other firmly covering his back, his little finger settled over the curve of his ass. Harry’s whole face is on fire. He takes a steadying breath and hops down from the stool, even though it makes him even shorter than Tom.</p><p> </p><p>“What do you want?” Harry says rudely.</p><p> </p><p>Tom blinks. He gestures around the shop. “I was just… enjoying the display. I didn’t know you worked here.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry scowls. “Sirius told you,” he says. “You asked him.”</p><p> </p><p>Tom is quiet for a moment, and Harry begins to worry that he’s made a terrible mistake. Riddle isn’t crazy enough to fire Sirius for something like this, is he? Maybe Harry should have kept his mouth shut.</p><p> </p><p>Then a gleeful smile spreads across his face and he inclines his head, just a little, in acquiescence. “Alright,” he says. “Maybe I’m here to see you. Is that so terrible?”</p><p> </p><p>Harry crosses his arms, and then just as quickly drops them to his sides, looking around to make sure his supervisor didn’t see that. The last thing he needs is Tom getting him in trouble for having an attitude with a customer.</p><p> </p><p>“That depends,” he says. “Why do you want to see me?”</p><p> </p><p>Tom smiles again, all teeth and dripping charm and predatory. “To get your recommendation, of course.” He holds up two painted baubles. “Red or green?”</p><p> </p><p>Harry sighs. “What colour are your other decorations?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t have any.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry stops. “What?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t celebrate Christmas. It’s a pointless holiday.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry splutters. <em> “A pointless– </em> it’s <em> fun. </em>Fun doesn’t have to have a point!”</p><p> </p><p>Tom frowns, puzzled. “What’s fun about it?” He asks.</p><p> </p><p>“You get to spend time with family and friends. You get to eat cool food. Giving gifts is fun. It’s just… it’s a nice time of year, alright?”</p><p> </p><p>Tom tilts his head. “Are you a religious person, Harry?” </p><p> </p><p>Harry tries not to choke on his own tongue at the way his name sounds in Tom’s mouth. “Well, no,” he says. And then, “Are you?”</p><p> </p><p>Tom shakes his head. “So really, you could do all those things any time of the year. There’s nothing inherently special about Christmas. It’s just a lot of hype for one meaningless day.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry grits his teeth and narrows his eyes. “Why are you buying Christmas decorations if you don’t celebrate Christmas?” He asks. “Did you just come to bully me for being silly and sentimental?”</p><p> </p><p>Tom laughs, and it’s such an unexpected reaction that a sliver of pride lodges itself in Harry’s chest. He does his best to ignore it.</p><p> </p><p>“Not exactly,” he says. And then, bizarrely, “Mr Black is forty one. I checked. How old are you?”</p><p> </p><p>“Twenty.” Now that he knows Tom doesn’t actually want to buy anything, he turns his back on him. His supervisor won’t mind so much if he ignores time wasters, and he has to get this stool back into the supply cupboard before the afternoon rush hits. He bends down to pick it up, and freezes when he feels the solid warmth of Tom’s body pressed to his back. Tom’s hand curls around the edge of the stool, his thumb brushing Harry’s little finger, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world to let go of it and allow Tom to carry it for him.</p><p> </p><p>Of course, once he’s done it, a wave of humiliation crashes over him. What is he doing? He’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself, doing his own work. Riddle can fuck right off if he thinks otherwise. </p><p> </p><p>“What are you doing here?” Tom asks, and Harry glowers at him.</p><p> </p><p>“What does it look like? I’m working.”</p><p> </p><p>Tom smirks and gives him a once over so obvious that it makes Harry shiver. “I meant in general,” he says. “Why aren’t you in university?”</p><p> </p><p>“Not everyone wants to go to uni, Riddle.” Harry tilts his chin up challengingly. “Sorry we can’t all be rich and snobby.”</p><p> </p><p>“It is a terrible shame, isn’t it?” Tom laughs at Harry’s furious expression, and then looks down at the stool in his hand. “Where shall I put this?” He asks.</p><p> </p><p>“Right back where you found it. I can do my own work.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know you <em> can,” </em> Tom says, and rounds on Harry with a stare that is frightening in its intensity. He looks <em> ravenous </em>. “But you shouldn’t have to. In fact, I’d like it if you let me do something for you.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry stares. His cheeks are flushed warm, eyes wide. He’s sure he looks like an idiot, standing there with his mouth open, so turned on he can barely think straight. Tom, for one, looks thrilled at Harry’s reaction. He brings his free hand up to Harry’s face and strokes his cheek with his knuckles, tucks his hair behind his ear and legs his hand linger for far longer than necessary. Much to his shame, Harry’s eyes flutter closed.</p><p> </p><p>It’s only for a second, but it’s long enough for Tom to know what he wants to know. He steps back, and Harry sucks in a gasping breath.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you like older men, Harry?” Tom asks, low and probing. It’s a physical struggle, not to fall into his chest and breathe his scent in deep.</p><p> </p><p>“What the fuck?” Harry hisses, tearing himself away. “I don’t– you can’t just– if you aren't going to buy something, Riddle, you can <em> fuck off.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>Tom stands back, thankfully giving Harry’s head some time to clear, and shrugs. “Alright,” he says, and picks up the red bauble. “Walk with me?”</p><p> </p><p>Harry’s shoulders droop. He does his best to look miserable at the arrangement, whilst inside he’s jumping up and down at the prospect of spending some more time with Tom. It’s addictive, having the man’s attention on him and him alone. He wonders what it would be like, to have someone take care of him the way Tom is saying someone should, is saying <em> he </em>should. </p><p> </p><p>“Wait,” Harry blurts out before he can stop himself. Tom stills. He doesn’t turn, but he watches Harry curiously over his shoulder. Harry clears his throat. “You should– you should get the green one. Suits you more.”</p><p> </p><p>Slowly, Tom picks up the green one as well. “You’re the boss,” he says with an easy shrug. </p><p> </p><p>They walk in silence towards the tills. Harry keeps his head down, half because he’s too embarrassed to even look at Tom and half so that he doesn’t attract any difficult customers. Tom is close enough at his side to warn away trouble anyway, and his looming frame is threatening enough to have most people shying out of their way. If Harry had known all he had to do to be unapproachable was bulk up, he would have started working out years ago.</p><p> </p><p>But that’s not really true either. It isn’t just that Tom is tall or muscular. There’s something else to him, some terrifying quality, a dangerous glint to his eye. That’s what gives him power, Harry thinks, and he would be just as menacing if he was a foot shorter. </p><p> </p><p>Harry has to get back to work, and now that Tom is in the queue there really is no excuse for Harry to still be hanging around. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and hopes he doesn’t look too awkward when he shuffles backwards.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, I should–”</p><p> </p><p>“Wait.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s one short word. It really shouldn’t have the effect it has, but Harry freezes. Instantly, his face flushes warm and his hands curl into fists. Why should <em> Riddle </em>be able to command him like he’s some dog? Harry doesn’t work for Tom, and he doesn’t have to do what he wants, just because Tom is rich and powerful and thinks he deserves that reaction. So why did Harry just stop without thinking? </p><p> </p><p>Maybe Tom can see the budding outrage in Harry’s features, in the way his forehead creases, the way he pushes his glasses up his nose with a white knuckle, because he smiles gently. He doesn’t even look at Harry’s coworker as he pays, just hands over a ten pound note and accepts the change with an open palm.</p><p> </p><p>He hands the red bauble to Harry, and keeps the green one for himself. “Here,” he says. “I bought it for you. Now we can share something special.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry is too dumbstruck to move, and too speechless to say anything. Tom smirks, far too self satisfied for Harry’s liking, and reaches out. One hand curls carefully around Harry’s wrist and, with a gentle touch, he closes Harry’s fingers one by one around the red bauble. </p><p> </p><p>“I thought you didn’t celebrate Christmas,” Harry says, and cringes when his voice breaks. He peers down at the bauble now in his hand and wonders idly if he has the willpower to reject it.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t. Christmas isn’t the only special thing, you know.” He pushes Harry’s glasses up his nose and then has the <em> audacity </em>to boop Harry’s nose as he pulls away. Harry would snap at him if it hadn’t been so fucking cute.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll see you soon, Harry,” Tom says like a promise. He leans down, kisses Harry’s cheek, and then leaves.</p><p> </p><p>Harry is left with one thought only: <em> what the fuck just happened? </em></p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you SO much to anyone that commented or left kudos on the first chapter!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Harry can’t stop asking himself that, as much as he tries to forget about it altogether. Tom Riddle sticks in his mind for a shamefully long time. Whenever Harry starts to think that maybe he’s forgetting about their encounter, he’ll remember how close Tom was to him, how solid and strong he was when he caught Harry in his arms, how his stubble brushed against Harry’s cheek when Tom kissed him.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Do you like older men, Harry? </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> That </em>thought stays with him as well, at night when he’s in bed, trying to get to sleep. Does he? In truth, Harry doesn’t know. He’s messed around with a few guys before - mostly in clubs as one night stands, or in school with the same jerks that would shoulder barge him in the hallway the next day - but he’s never been in a long term relationship. How would he even know what he likes? </p><p> </p><p>He thinks he likes Tom. At least, physically. He has no idea how old the man is but the signs of his age aren’t offputting at all. If anything, they make him more attractive; he’s more confident, more sure of himself, and while that is absolutely infuriating when Harry has to actually talk to him, it does make him undeniably appealing. The way he carries himself, as though he knows how important he is and he expects others to show respect, has Harry weak at the knees.</p><p> </p><p>God, it’s pathetic how Tom has him questioning so much about himself. The man is a <em> snob, </em>rich and entitled and rude, and yet Harry still wants to bury his face in Tom’s chest again. He keeps the red bauble on his bedside table, and scowls at it every morning when he wakes up. It’s embarrassing. If Sirius ever found out, he would never let Harry live it down.</p><p> </p><p>So Harry decides he <em> has </em>to forget about Tom. Regardless of how hot he is, he’s still just a guy, and Harry has turned guys down before. He can do it again, can just push Tom out of his head by focusing on work and getting the perfect Christmas present for Sirius. </p><p> </p><p>Of course, that’s when the gifts start arriving.</p><p> </p><p>It starts off small, which is probably why Harry doesn’t make such a big deal of it. When the postman hands him a small, square package that he definitely didn’t order, he takes it with a grateful smile and a nervous anticipation growing in his chest. He doesn’t recognise that handwriting, but somehow he just <em> knows. </em> Only Tom would write with that elegant cursive, that posh flick and curl to his letters. He runs his thumb over the ink, over his name in Tom’s handwriting, and shivers.</p><p> </p><p>He opens it with caution, knee bouncing under his desk, and imagines Tom sitting somewhere similar, folding the corners down carefully, writing Harry’s address on the front. He wonders if Tom packed it himself - he probably pays people to do that sort of thing for him, but Harry thinks maybe Tom would want to do this on his own. </p><p> </p><p>It opens easily enough. Harry spares a thought to how expertly Tom has wrapped it. For a man that doesn’t celebrate Christmas, he sure has put a lot of effort into this. Something warm and satisfied blooms in Harry’s chest.</p><p> </p><p>Inside the box is a necklace, laid out on a black velvet background. It’s a delicate thing, a small, black gem hanging on a silver chain. Harry doesn’t wear jewellery often, but this is as beautiful as it is puzzling and he almost doesn’t want to touch it, in case he damages it. The clasp is so small and fiddly, and Harry has never been particularly tactile. He could ask Sirius to help him put it on, but then he’d have to explain where it came from, and how would he do that?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ‘No big deal, but your boss has been kind of stalking me and now he’s buying me presents. Merry Christmas!’ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Harry snorts. Yeah, that wouldn’t go down well.</p><p> </p><p>He closes the lid carefully with the necklace still inside and leaves the box by his bed. A note has fluttered down to the floor and Harry bends to pick it up. The writing here has the same distinguished flourish as it does on the box, and Harry’s face splits with a grin as he pictures Tom leaving him a handwritten note. It’s ridiculously sappy and sentimental for someone he barely knows.</p><p> </p><p>The note reads: </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Dearest Harry, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The onyx stone is particularly beautiful, and means quite a bit to me. It reminded me of you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> All my love, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Tom  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Harry grabs the nearest pillow and hugs it to his chest, buries his face in it and smiles like an idiot. Particularly beautiful? Quite meaningful? And it reminded Tom of… him? Is he actually flirting with Harry? It had certainly seemed that way in the store, in a weird, stilted way, but seeing tangible proof of the man’s affections is another thing entirely.</p><p> </p><p>Then Harry’s smile dims, and his happiness darkens. That necklace is the perfect example of <em> tangible </em> proof. Does Tom think he can <em> buy </em>Harry? Is that what this is about? First the bauble and now the necklace, it can’t be a coincidence.</p><p> </p><p>Riddle is rich, Harry tells himself, and he probably throws money away like this all the time. Harry isn’t special, even though that note had seemed overwhelmingly personal. Maybe this is all a ploy to get dirt on Sirius, get a reason to fire him. That’s way more likely than Tom actually being interested in someone like Harry.</p><p> </p><p>Not that Harry <em> is </em>interested, of course. Tom Riddle is a jerk, and this just proves that. Harry contemplates bursting into Tom’s office to demand an explanation or - even though the thought has his shoulders sagging - giving the necklace back. He decides against it quickly - that won’t be necessary. He had been really annoying at the store, and rude when Harry had gone to collect Sirius. It doesn’t mean anything if he keeps the necklace as compensation.</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps he could go anyway, just to give a brisk <em> thank you, </em>but how would that even work? Would he just wander around the building, telling everybody he needs to see Big Scary CEO Tom Riddle and hiding his blush when they inevitably laugh at him. And what if Sirius caught him? There’s no chance he could explain his way out of this one. He doesn’t have Tom’s address or phone number, so he has no other way of contacting him. Harry pointedly ignores the sharp twist in his stomach at the realisation.</p><p> </p><p>It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. Tom can only have gotten <em> his </em>address by being a creeper and looking through Sirius’ records anyway. Harry doesn’t need to do anything.</p><p> </p><p>He tosses the pillow aside with a huff and heads downstairs. He’s going to make a curry, and he is <em> not </em>going to think about Tom Riddle and his stupid, beautiful gift. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The next gift comes two days later. Harry should have known it wouldn’t stop with just one - Tom isn’t the kind of man to do things in half measures. This time, a knock at the door has Harry rushing downstairs in his pyjamas to answer it. He looks side to side down the street but it’s completely empty, no cars dawdling, no neighbours waving. Then he looks down at the doorstep, and sees another parcel.</p><p> </p><p>This one is bigger than the last, much bigger, and that familiar handwriting sprawls across a letter taped to the top. Harry gapes at it for a second, and then rushes out into the street with bare feet. He half expects to see Tom peering out from behind a tree, but there’s still no one about. Harry scowls and folds his arms as he figures out what to do with this new gift. It was definitely hand delivered, and he snorts at the thought of Tom knocking on the door and then diving into a bush to hide.</p><p> </p><p>Realistically, he probably pays people to deliver weird gifts.</p><p> </p><p>In the end, he takes it into the kitchen and plonks it down on the table. Giving it evil glares won’t actually do anything, so he grabs a pair of scissors and cuts through the wrapping on the top.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but it certainly isn’t a cake. </p><p> </p><p>A <em> cake. </em></p><p> </p><p>A fancy one, too, with pretty icing and edible flowers in a circle around the outside. Upon closer inspection, Harry sees that it's been placed on a bed of red rose petals. Not very practical, and not very platonic either. </p><p> </p><p>Before, Harry had some room to kid himself. A necklace isn’t necessarily a romantic gesture, and Harry had clung to a thin layer of denial. <em> This, </em>however, is undeniably, undoubtedly romantic, and he has no idea what to do with that knowledge. How could Tom ever be satisfied with Harry? He’ll never live up to the man’s ridiculous expectations, and if Tom only wants him around for an easy lay then that won’t work out either. Harry isn’t in the habit of sleeping with assholes. Not since secondary school, anyway. </p><p> </p><p>Whatever. He wouldn’t even know what to say in response to this if Tom was right in front of him. Honestly, he’s grateful for the excuse to think this over a little longer. He’ll eat the cake - because the thought of good food going to waste still makes his chest clench uncomfortably - and as much as he doesn’t want to, he’ll lie to Sirius about where it came from. </p><p> </p><p>The note, when Harry finally plucks up enough courage to read it, says only, <em> Almost as sweet as you - enjoy. </em></p><p> </p><p>*</p><p>By the time the third gift appears, Harry has had enough. </p><p> </p><p>He wakes, on a rare day off, to the deafening blast of a car horn. Feeling dazed, heart racing in his sudden panic, Harry leaps out of bed and dashes towards the window in time to see his neighbour gesturing angrily at a van driver, stopped in the middle of the road. The back of the van is open and another couple of workers are in the process of unloading something.</p><p> </p><p>Right onto Harry’s front lawn. </p><p> </p><p>He frowns, eyebrows knitted together, as he tries to remember anything Sirius might have mentioned. He didn’t say they were having any work done on the house, but it’s not unlikely that he’d have forgotten. Harry groans and pulls on a hoodie, shuffling down the stairs.</p><p> </p><p>“Um, hello? Can I help you?” He calls out. The men turn at the sound of his voice, but only one walks towards him. The other two continue unloading things. Now that he’s closer and he has his glasses on, Harry can see that the indistinguishable objects are fancy clay pots filled with flowers. Lots of them.</p><p> </p><p>“You Harry Potter?” The man asks, and Harry nods distractedly. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes. What are you doing?”</p><p> </p><p>“Winter wonderland.” The man waves his hand dismissively and holds out a clipboard. “Sign here please.”</p><p> </p><p><em> “What?” </em>Harry asks, but he takes the clipboard anyway, like an idiot.</p><p> </p><p>“Winter wonderland,” the man repeats, slowly now. “It’s a landscape gardening thing. He didn’t tell you we were coming?”</p><p> </p><p>“Who didn’t?” Harry asks, but even as he says it the answer springs to mind.</p><p> </p><p>Who else would do something this needlessly dramatic? Who would be confident enough to send workmen to Harry’s house without so much as a warning to do something that might not even be welcome?</p><p> </p><p>Harry’s fists clench and he turns on his heel. The man behind him calls out in confusion, but Harry is on a mission. He has to contact Tom, and he <em> really </em>doesn’t want to see him in person or he might lose any semblance of control. That only leaves one solution.</p><p> </p><p>Rooting through the drawer of Sirius’ work desk, Harry finds what he’s looking for in the form of Sirius’ contact details. He printed them out when Harry moved in all those years ago: he was only thirteen and Sirius felt awful that he wouldn’t be there to take care of him when he got home from school. After a week of trying to persuade Sirius not to hire a babysitter, they finally compromised. Harry would stay at home on his own, as long as he promised to call Sirius if something happened.</p><p> </p><p>Harry has Sirius’ mobile number, his work number and his work email address. Everyone at the company has one, personalised only through first and last names. Maybe, if Harry is lucky, Tom Riddle will have one too.</p><p> </p><p>He copies the format into his laptop and sends off one single word that he really hopes will get the message across.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> STOP. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p>The winter wonderland is, to be fair, extremely beautiful. Snowdrops line the pathway up to the door and they’ve even dotted some light-up candy canes across the garden. There’s a blow-up snowman standing guard by the gate. Fairy lights twist over the archway of the door and cast soft, glowing tones of yellow and orange against the walls. Harry’s heart aches with how pretty it is, and how much he wishes he could have organised it himself. </p><p> </p><p>He had approached the workmen when they were taking a quick coffee break and asked them how much it would all cost, with a kind of steely determination usually reserved for complaining customers. They had informed them with a lazy shrug that it had all already been paid for, and that he could relax.</p><p> </p><p>Harry has never been further from relaxed than right now. Tom just replied to his email. </p><p> </p><p>He can’t bring himself to open it. </p><p> </p><p>It’s almost as if he’s afraid of what Tom might have said. Harry told him to stop, but a tendril of anxiety slips through the cracks in his mask. If this email is an apology and a promise to leave him alone, Harry will be disappointed, and isn’t that embarrassing.</p><p> </p><p>He just… isn’t used to gifts. He never got them with the Dursleys, and although he has Sirius now and a whole group of friends, celebrating the holiday was enough of a present on its own. Tom’s shameless displays of wealth should anger him. They <em> definitely </em>shouldn’t make his heart flutter with excitement. What’s wrong with him?</p><p> </p><p>With a heaving chest, Harry opens Tom’s email and scans it greedily. He’s looking for pet names, endearments, any signs of the flirtatious teasing that shone through on their two previous meetings. All these things, he should hate.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I wondered how long it would take you. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Don’t you like snowdrops? Tell me your favourite flower and I’ll have them change it. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Harry gapes. Tom isn’t sorry in the slightest. He doesn’t understand how <em> weird </em>what he’s doing is. He’s not even considering listening to Harry, or following his instruction.</p><p> </p><p>He grits his teeth and slams his laptop shut. Harry has gone crazy - Tom is ridiculous and stubborn and Harry was stupid to think otherwise. He’s not going to dignify Tom with an answer; right now, he just needs to carry on with his life as normal and pretend that none of this weird, Christmas stalking is happening at all.</p><p> </p><p>Mission ‘Ignore Tom Riddle’ starts now.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p>Mission ‘Ignore Tom Riddle’ ends the next day, when the man himself shows up at Harry’s work. </p><p> </p><p>Harry stops in the middle of the room with arms full of price labels, mouth hanging open. If possible, Tom looks even more attractive than before. He’s wearing a white button up shirt with a green tie hanging loosely around his neck and black dress pants, as though he just got out of an important meeting. Unbidden, the image of Harry crawling into Tom’s lap springs to mind, untucking that shirt from those trousers and tugging on Tom’s tie until they’re close enough to kiss. Harry’s cheeks flare with heat and he glares, turning on his heel to storm away. It’s been a long, bizarre week. Harry is allowed to be a little dramatic.</p><p> </p><p>“Harry,” Tom says, popping up at his side as though he just appeared there. Harry jerks in surprise.</p><p> </p><p>“How–” he looks over his shoulder at where Tom was standing only a second ago, and then down at Tom’s ridiculously long legs. It probably only took two or three big strides to cover the distance. </p><p> </p><p>“Let me help you with that,” Tom says instead of answering, already reaching out to take some of the boxes from Harry’s arms. Harry sidesteps him quickly, hugging them a little closer to his chest like he’s trying to protect them.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t <em> need </em>your help,” he says.</p><p> </p><p>Tom watches him carefully for a moment. “You didn’t answer my email,” he says eventually, voice carefully devoid of any emotion. Harry shrugs. He isn’t going to be made to feel bad - he <em> isn’t. </em></p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t answer mine,” he says simply. “Not really. I asked you to stop.”</p><p> </p><p>“But you don’t really want me to.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry rounds on him then, pieces of paper flying over the sides of the box. “You don’t know what I want!” He cries. “You don’t get to make decisions for me like that, alright?”</p><p> </p><p>Tom’s mouth is tight and pinched, his shoulders pushed back so that his chest puffs out. Harry spares a weak moment to appreciate the sight he makes, before he looks around. From over Tom’s shoulder, Harry can see his boss scowling at him, arms crossed over her chest, foot tapping the floor impatiently. He gulps.</p><p> </p><p>“I told you before,” Harry sighs. “If you aren’t here to buy something, leave.”</p><p> </p><p>At this, Tom seems to perk up. His shoulders relax a little and warmth creeps into his stoic features. “I remember,” he says with an ominous grin. “Don’t worry. I am here to buy something.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry cocks an eyebrow. “Oh, really? What?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve come to buy…” Tom’s head turns quickly, scanning the room, and his eyes fall on the far wall. “That,” he finishes, pointing.</p><p> </p><p>Harry follows his gaze. “Tinsel? You came to buy… tinsel?”</p><p> </p><p>Tom’s face does a funny, displeased twitch before it smooths into his familiar, handsome smirk. “Yes,” he says stiffly. “Lots of it. Quite possibly the biggest purchase you’ve ever had. I want all of it.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry dumps the box at his feet, just so he can cross his arms. “You want all of the tinsel,” he says flatly.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>“All of it.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s what I said.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry should have known Tom wouldn’t back down from a challenge. At Harry’s tilted chin and steely eyes, he seems to have become even more determined to follow through with this. Harry drops the stilted indifference.</p><p> </p><p>“Why are you doing this?” He gestures wildly, exasperated. “What’s your aim here?”</p><p> </p><p>Tom smiles. “Tinsel.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re unbelievably annoying, do you know that?” Tom doesn’t reply to that, just tilts his head like Harry is a particularly interesting science experiment, so he heaves a sigh and turns to leave. “Fine,” he says, waving his hand in the general direction of the tinsel. “I’ll pack that up for you.”</p><p> </p><p>Tom stops him with a gentle hand wrapped around his wrist. The small point of contact feels like a brand, and Harry shivers with how intensely Tom is watching him. For a moment, he thinks that Tom has reconsidered, that he’s going to slink away without completing this silly game. He should have known that was an unrealistic goal.</p><p> </p><p>“No,” Tom says softly. “Not just that. <em> All </em>of it. Everything you have here.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry’s mind flits from thought to thought. “But– you can’t… we don’t– <em> no! </em>I can’t sell you our entire stock! What could you possibly need that much tinsel for?”</p><p> </p><p>Tom shrugs and inspects his nails. “I have a big house.”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t celebrate.”</p><p> </p><p>Tom looks up sharply. “I wasn’t aware one had to celebrate to make a purchase.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry flushes warm and embarrassed. “I didn’t– no, of course you don’t.” How has Tom twisted this situation so completely? “I just… can you tell me <em> why?” </em></p><p> </p><p>For a fraction of a second, so briefly that Harry later thinks he imagined it, Tom’s eyes soften. His smile flickers tender and unbearably fond. Then the familiarity is gone, replaced by a cool, smug satisfaction. </p><p> </p><p>“You work on commission, don’t you, Mr Potter?”</p><p> </p><p>At first, Harry doesn’t understand. Commission? What? What does that have to do with anything? Then realisation washes over him in a cool, soothing wave. </p><p> </p><p>He works on commission - ten percent for every sale he organises. Ten percent of a sale this big would certainly be more than his Christmas bonus, and Tom must know that. He must, because why else would he come here to buy decorations that he has no intention of putting up?</p><p> </p><p>And that only leaves one more question; curiosity burns in Harry’s throat, and he’s anticipating the explosion before it happens.</p><p> </p><p>“What is <em> wrong </em>with you?” He cries, arms flapping wildly. Tom doesn’t look surprised, just amused and patient, as though Harry throwing a temper tantrum is just another obstacle to get past. That riles Harry up more than before.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry?”</p><p> </p><p>“Why are you doing this?” Harry demands. “The gifts, the decorations… what are you hoping to achieve? Because I don’t <em> owe </em>you anything, alright? I didn’t ask for any of this.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know you didn’t,” Tom says quietly. “You don’t have to. I’m not hoping to achieve anything, other than your happiness.”</p><p> </p><p>He sounds so painfully sincere that Harry’s chest aches. He <em> can’t </em>be serious. He just can’t be - it makes no sense, when they hardly know each other, and the little knowledge Tom does have can hardly be endearing. Harry would be best to cut his losses while he still has the strength to.</p><p> </p><p>“You know what would make me happy?” Harry says. “If you stopped being weird, and you stopped sending me gifts I don’t need.”</p><p> </p><p>At the mere mention of it, Tom’s eyes flick down to Harry’s neck. His pupils are dark and wide, suddenly hungry, and it takes Harry a moment to realise he’s looking for the necklace. There’s nothing to see though, only Harry’s exposed skin, the column of his throat and the slightest hint of his collarbones. When he meets Harry’s eyes again, he seems disappointed but no less intense. </p><p> </p><p>“You don’t like them.”</p><p> </p><p>It isn’t a question. It’s as though Tom has already decided the gifts were incorrect, and is thinking of ways to improve them. If Harry doesn’t put a stop to this then it’ll only get worse, and Tom will send more and more things in an attempt to find ‘the perfect gift’. Harry can’t let that happen.</p><p> </p><p>Besides, it seems cruel to let him think he got it wrong, when in reality Harry has treasured each new present with a force he didn’t know was possible.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s not it,” he says softly, and without thinking, he lays his hand over Tom’s forearm. Tom stiffens, frozen, and then a muscle in his jaw tics. At first Harry thinks he has crossed a boundary in touching Tom - then it dawns on him. Tom isn’t angry or uncomfortable. Tom is strained, from holding back. </p><p> </p><p>He wrenches his hand away, even though it hurts to do it.</p><p> </p><p>“The gifts were lovely,” he says finally, keeping his voice carefully distant. “But you’ve given me enough now, and I don’t want anymore. It’s… inappropriate.”</p><p> </p><p>Something dark and indistinguishable flashes across Tom’s face. His whole demeanour changes - in only a few seconds he’s tightly coiled and simmering with barely restrained energy. “Oh, yes,” he says, voice clipped. “That’s right. Tell me, what did Mr Black think of my gifts?”</p><p> </p><p>Harry’s forehead creases in confusion. He doesn’t know why Tom is asking about Sirius all of a sudden, but if it distracts him from the gentle rejection then he’ll take it.</p><p> </p><p>“I… haven’t told him,” he says slowly. “I don't think he should find out.”</p><p> </p><p>Tom sucks in a sharp breath, eyes wide, mouth slightly parted. His lips are damp, Harry notices. He wants to lick them himself, taste them, feel them against his own. <em> Christ.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” Tom breathes, mouth twisting into a smile. It’s unnerving, and it leaves Harry with the distinct impression that he has said something important without realising it. Tom reaches up but hesitates with his fingers inches from Harry’s cheek. “I see. Tell me, Harry, would you like to decorate with me?”</p><p> </p><p>Harry steps back. The conversation has taken a sudden, unexpected turn, and the proximity no longer feels necessary. He doesn’t need to comfort Tom now that Tom is back to normal, and the thought shouldn’t be as disappointing as it is.</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“I have a big house. I’m going to have a lot of work on my hands, what with all that.” He jerks his head in the direction of the tinsel and Harry’s heart sinks. He still means to go through with that? He’s crazier than Harry first thought. “I’d appreciate a helping set of hands. I thought you might enjoy it. You like Christmas, don’t you? I could put on some music. I could take you out to dinner afterwards, to say thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry’s stomach rolls. All of this - every last bit: the gifts, the visits, the weird behaviour - has all been about getting him into bed. It’s so clear now. Tom came here with the intention of getting Harry a huge commission, and then made it obvious he expects something in return. He’s trying to <em> buy </em>him.</p><p> </p><p>Harry’s blood simmers with rage, and he bites his tongue until he tastes tangy copper. He has <em> never </em>met anyone so capable of getting under his skin.</p><p> </p><p>“No,” he says darkly, glowering. “Take your gifts and your commission and your <em> stupid inflatable snowman </em> and <em> leave me alone.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Harry doesn’t wait around. He catches a glimpse of Tom’s open, shocked expression before he whirls around and marches towards the staff room, leaving the box of price labels abandoned in the middle of the floor. It’s about time for his break, Harry thinks.</p><p> </p><p>The gifts stop coming soon after that. He doesn’t realise he misses them until he hears the retreating rumble of the postman driving away, and there is nothing with Tom’s elegant, crawling handwriting left for him on the doorstep. He’s an idiot, craving something he shouldn’t want, but he can’t help himself. He feels it like a physical pull, a rope wrapped tight in his chest, squeezing his heart every time Tom moves.</p><p> </p><p>When his paycheck comes in at the end of that month and Harry catches sight of the unnaturally large commission total, his stomach somersaults. It’s a lot more than he usually makes, but not enough to suggest that Tom literally bought out the whole store.</p><p> </p><p>That small concession is enough to make him smile. He sends of a quick email to Tom that says, <em> You shouldn’t have, but thank you. </em></p><p> </p><p>Tom sends one back that says, <em> Anything for you, my love, </em>and Harry rides that high for days.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p>Harry is drenched before he even reaches the pavement. It’s an awful evening - if the weather was going to be terrible, couldn’t they at least have had some snow? - and Harry is shivering even with his hood pulled up. He clutches his coat together at the front because the zip has been broken for months, and cringes as he steps in a puddle. Dirty water splashes up his leg and soaks through his shoe. Fucking great - just what he needed.</p><p> </p><p>It isn’t often that he takes afternoon shifts at the cafe. He’s usually working at the display at this time of day, so he misses out on the stressful lunch rush. Today was an exception. He’d agreed to cover a shift, and though he could use the money, he found himself regretting it half an hour in. </p><p> </p><p>Whatever. He pushes the memory away and trudges home. It’s over, and he doesn’t have any shifts scheduled there until after Christmas, which is a relief. He can’t wait to have a shower and crawl into bed. Somehow, the chill in the air has crept into his bones and he wants to stand under the warm spray of water until it’s all washed away.</p><p> </p><p>He barely even notices the car idling next to him until the window rolls down. He startles, taking a few staggering steps backwards. He’s a little old to be kidnapped now, but it never hurts to take precautions.</p><p> </p><p>Then he actually looks at the car, and the person in it. Of fucking course Tom drives a Bentley.</p><p> </p><p>“Get in,” Tom says, beckoning Harry closer. “You can’t walk home in this.” He glances up at the dark sky and frowns. His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows and Harry’s eyes dart to his hands where they’re wrapped around the steering wheel, long fingers curled, tapping impatiently. His mouth feels suddenly dry.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you stalking me?” Harry replies weakly. </p><p> </p><p>Tom laughs. “Sure.” He tilts his head, bemused. “Get in the car, Harry. You’ll catch a cold.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m perfectly fine, thank you,” Harry sniffs. He turns and continues walking, but Tom dawdles behind him, never once letting Harry out of his sight.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s dark,” he tries next. “You could get hurt.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m a grown man,” Harry snaps. “Perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sure you are, but I’d still rather you let me.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry stops, pulse racing. “What?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’d like to take care of you, Harry,” Tom says, voice deep and soothing. Harry wants to lay his head against Tom’s chest and listen to the rumble of his words. “Will you let me?”</p><p> </p><p>He opens and shuts his mouth a few times. Nobody has ever said that before. At least, not with Tom’s intentions. Sirius said that he would take care of Harry when they first met, when Harry was thirteen and scared and still reeling from his sudden departure from the Dursleys. That felt warm, safe, like the comforting weight of a blanket. </p><p> </p><p>This is an entirely different sensation. This feels burning hot and dangerous and exciting. He <em> wants. </em></p><p> </p><p>“Just–” he clears his throat and wets his lips. “Okay. Yes. Thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>Sliding into the passenger seat of Tom’s car is a relief. A burst of warm air has him sighing happily, even though he feels bad about getting Tom’s fancy car dirty. </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry about the seats,” he says, but Tom shakes his head.</p><p> </p><p>“They’re nothing,” he says, and Harry hears the unspoken meaning. <em> They’re nothing, and you’re… more. </em></p><p> </p><p>It just doesn’t make any sense to him. All the confusion and anger and longing of the past few weeks culminate in a sad, pathetic groan. Harry drops his head into his hands.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t get you,” he says pitifully. </p><p> </p><p>Tom glances his way, but quickly looks back to the road. Harry supposes that should be a relief.</p><p> </p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p> </p><p>“All these gifts. Being nice to me. You don’t even know me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Do you have a point here, Harry?”</p><p> </p><p>Harry’s fists clench. “My point is,” he says through gritted teeth. “You can’t buy me. Alright?”</p><p> </p><p>Tom is quiet, and after a few silent moments it becomes obvious he isn’t going to reply. This is even more infuriating.</p><p> </p><p>“Tom,” Harry continues. “I’m not going to sleep with you just because you… buy me things, alright? You can’t win my affections with money.”</p><p> </p><p>Tom’s knuckles turn white around the steering wheel. He’s clenching his jaw so tight that a vein throbs in his temple. When he speaks, his words are quiet and careful, restrained, not at all his usual drawl.</p><p> </p><p>“Then what can I do?”</p><p> </p><p>Harry frowns. “What?”</p><p> </p><p>“What would you have me do, Harry? How can I win your affections, if not like this?”</p><p> </p><p>Harry bites his lip and clasps his hands in his lap. He hadn’t been expecting Tom to actually ask that. He didn’t think Tom was <em> serious </em>about this. If he hasn’t lost interest after everything Harry said, then maybe…</p><p> </p><p>“We could just… talk?” Harry suggests. “I’ll give you my number.” And then, because he realises he’s being a bit presumptuous, “If you want.”</p><p> </p><p>Some of the tension drains from Tom’s shoulders. He eyes Harry with the faintest hint of a smile. “I would,” he says.</p><p> </p><p>Harry smiles warmly. He lets out a breath, and a bubble bursts in his chest, a sudden release of pressure that he hadn’t known was there. He reaches into his pocket for his phone.</p><p> </p><p>And then tries the other one when he can’t find it.</p><p> </p><p>Then he tries his jeans pockets instead, and it isn’t there either. With a dawning sense of dread, Harry thinks about his locker at work, where he usually keeps his phone and his house keys. He drops his head back against the headrest with a groan and presses his knuckles against his eyelids.</p><p> </p><p>“What?” Tom asks, sounding suddenly alarmed. “What’s wrong?”</p><p> </p><p>“I left my phone at work,” Harry says. “And my keys. Sirius is at work until five. I won’t be able to get in.”</p><p> </p><p>Thinking about home, Harry realises that Tom hadn’t even asked for his address. He knows it already, obviously, but perhaps it should be concerning that he just seems to know where to go without being told.</p><p> </p><p>Harry pushes the thought aside. He can worry about that another time. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” Tom hums. Then, “Would you like me to turn around?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, don’t bother. But thank you,” Harry adds hastily. “The cafe closes early today. It’ll be locked by now. I’ll have to go back tomorrow.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sure I could find a way around that,” Tom says, and Harry glares suspiciously. He doesn’t know whether Tom means smashing the windows or picking the lock, or maybe even ringing up Harry’s boss and getting him down here, but it doesn’t matter. All those options are unacceptable.</p><p> </p><p>“No, thank you,” he replies carefully. “If… maybe, if I could visit Sirius at work, I could borrow his keys?”</p><p> </p><p>Harry’s eyes dart to Tom to scope out his reaction. He’s reluctant to bring up Sirius in front of the man, because it’s obvious he dislikes him for whatever reason. As he’d expected, Tom’s lips press into a thin line.</p><p> </p><p>“No,” he says sharply, and then swallows. Harry watches his throat bob with the motion. “Mr Black is… very busy at work. He couldn’t possibly take a break.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’d be very quick,” Harry says. “He wouldn’t even have to leave his desk.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s just not possible, I’m afraid.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry scoffs and slumps back in his seat, crossing his arms. He’s absolutely <em> not </em> sulking, but if he was, Tom would deserve it. “Fine,” he snaps. “I’ll sit on the doorstep and catch a cold, like you said.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s not what I–” Tom sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I was going to suggest you come home with me.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry blinks. “Um. What?”</p><p> </p><p>“Until… <em> Sirius </em>finishes work.” He says Sirius’ name with a mocking snarl, but Harry is too shocked to pay much attention. “You could dry off, relax for a bit. I would take you home when Mr Black’s shift is over.” They pause at a red light and it gives Tom the opportunity to study Harry in detail, his wide eyes, his wet hair. He probably looks like a drowned rat, but Tom simply smiles. He leans over and brushes away a strand of wet hair that was clinging to Harry’s cheek. “I’m only offering out of the kindness of my heart, of course,” Tom says with a crooked, handsome smirk. “No funny business. Scout’s honour.”</p><p> </p><p>Completely lost for words, Harry blurts out, “You were <em> not </em>a Boy Scout.”</p><p> </p><p>Tom laughs incredulously. “No,” he says, and shakes his head indulgently. “I most certainly was not.”</p><p> </p><p>“It won’t be long,” Harry says, mostly to himself. “Just an hour or so.”</p><p> </p><p>“Indeed.”</p><p> </p><p>“And… we’ll just stick to normal, boring conversations?”</p><p> </p><p>“We can talk about the horrible weather,” Tom tells him. “Or yesterday’s paper. I still haven’t solved that crossword.”</p><p> </p><p>“I prefer sudoku myself.”</p><p> </p><p>Tom cups Harry’s cheek. “What will it be, then? My house?”</p><p> </p><p>Harry purses his lips and tries his best not to lean into the touch. “If it’s that or pneumonia,” he says diplomatically. “I suppose your house will do.”</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Merry Christmas to those that celebrate and I hope everyone has a fantastic day!</p><p>Enjoy! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tom wasn’t kidding before. He <em> does </em> have a big house, except that maybe <em> big </em>is an understatement. He lives in a mansion. An actual, real life mansion that looks like it came straight out of a nineteenth century horror movie about dead Victorian twins. </p><p> </p><p>Tom parks on the driveway, tucked right up to the front door. Behind them, the gates begin to close on their own, and a little to the right a marble statue spouts water. Harry feels like he’s stepped into another reality.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s a little much, I know,” Tom says. “But it was the closest house I have to yours. I thought you might appreciate a shorter journey.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry splutters. “You have <em> more </em>houses?”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course,” Tom smirks. “I travel a lot.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, don’t look so smug. I already told you that money isn’t going to win me over.”</p><p> </p><p>“But you’re so cute when you’re starry eyed.” Tom laughs at what must be a particularly grumpy expression, and then proceeds to take his coat off. Harry’s eyes go wide and he jerks around in his seat, stubbornly glaring out of the window. The last thing he needs if he wants to avoid sleeping with Tom is actively watching the man undress. </p><p> </p><p>But Tom just chuckles and strokes a sensitive spot behind Harry’s ear and says, “Relax. It’s for you.”</p><p> </p><p>Before Harry can ask what he means, Tom swings the car door open and braves the weather. He rushes around to Harry’s side and opens the door for him, holding the coat up like an umbrella to shelter under. Harry’s heart flips with affection that he refuses to show.</p><p> </p><p>He rolls his eyes. “Such a gentleman.”</p><p> </p><p>“Naturally.”</p><p> </p><p>Tom stays by Harry’s side until they’re at the front door, and while Harry is still mostly dry, Tom is soaked. His shirt is practically see through - and if Harry’s gaze lingers there a little longer than necessary, who can blame him? - but he doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest.</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks,” Harry says softly. He realises, then, how close they are, how he can feel Tom’s warm breath on his cheek, feel the heat from his body. He takes a small step backwards.</p><p> </p><p>The inside of Tom’s house is just as impressive as the exterior. The furnishings are all a deep, mahogany wood and actual, real life chandeliers hang from the ceiling, filling the room with a soft orange glow. Despite the overwhelming grandeur, Harry feels at home here, safe and comfortable. It certainly helps that Tom is hovering behind him, his hands squeezing Harry’s shoulders in a calming massage.</p><p> </p><p>“If you want to get out of these clothes, just let me know.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry stumbles forward. <em> “What?” </em>He demands, red faced and flustered. </p><p> </p><p>Tom’s eyes widen, all faux innocence and exaggerated confusion. “You’re soaking wet, Harry. I can dry your clothes off and have them back to you in half an hour. You can wear something of mine in the meantime.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” Harry says, feeling foolish and suspicious at once. They did say there wouldn’t be any flirting, but Harry isn’t naive enough to think that Tom will stick to that promise. His clothes are pretty gross, though. “Um, yeah. That would be great, thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>Tom steers Harry towards a great, spiral staircase with a plush, green rug that runs the length of it. Harry kicks off his dirty shoes but Tom keeps moving, keeps pressing forward with his chest flush against Harry’s back, and there’s no time to set them aside anywhere. They lay abandoned halfway up the stairs, soggy and tattered. Harry feels embarrassed just looking at them amongst the beauty of Tom’s home.</p><p> </p><p>Tom takes him to a smaller room at the end of the hall. It would be ominous if Harry didn’t trust Tom - and maybe that’s stupid, maybe he shouldn’t, because he doesn’t know anything about him other than that he’s rich and he knows how to seduce somebody with only a few words. Those are definitely both qualities that a serial killer would possess. But… right now, ignoring the sickening display of money and power that surrounds them, Tom is just Tom, and Harry trusts him.</p><p> </p><p>“Here, sit down,” Tom says. The room is obviously his bedroom. It looks lived in, while the rest of the house lacks a human touch. There are photos on the walls, books scattered on the desk and the bed isn’t made. A rush of warmth pools in Harry’s stomach just looking at Tom’s bed. Tom sleeps in that bed. He has probably slept <em> with </em>people in that bed, and now Harry is perched on the edge of it, pressing his knees together so that nothing embarrassing happens. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re a bit smaller than me, but these should do.” Tom gives him an obvious once over and Harry squirms, fighting the urge to fidget. Maybe he should sit on his hands for good measure, but Tom would probably laugh at him for that.</p><p> </p><p>He hands over a pair of jogging bottoms and a sweater that’s so soft Harry wants to bury his face in it. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m surprised you own anything that isn’t a suit,” Harry teases, hands already creeping towards the hem of his t-shirt. He should absolutely not start getting changed in front of Tom, but Harry is shivering and the sweater smells like Tom…</p><p> </p><p>“You’re pretty bold for a guy that wears plastic bags on his feet,” Tom says, and Harry snaps out of the daze.</p><p> </p><p>“They are <em> not </em>plastic bags!” He says, indignant. “They’re just… a little old.”</p><p> </p><p>“A little?”</p><p> </p><p>Harry is very close to picking up a pillow and hurling it at Tom, but the man is already grinning and heading for the door. Maybe Harry’s murderous thoughts were written across his face - he certainly feels exposed when he’s around Tom, unable to hide anything he’s thinking or feeling. It wouldn’t be so bad if Tom wasn’t a complete mystery himself.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll be in the kitchen,” Tom says, leant against the doorframe. “Come find me when you’re done. If you get lost, just head down the stairs and it’s the second door on the left.” He clutches a different set of clothes to his chest and Harry realises that he’s going to go and get changed now too. Fantastic - now that’s going to be all he can think about while he’s taking his clothes off in Tom’s bedroom.</p><p> </p><p>Harry nods and Tom closes the door behind him. Although Harry misses his presence almost straight away, he can think clearly for the first time now. Something about Tom is helplessly distracting.</p><p> </p><p>He changes quickly. On his own, the room seems colder and emptier. A shiver passes down Harry’s spine and he burrows into the sweater, inhaling deeply. Fuck, is Tom really expecting him to take this off in an hour’s time? That’s just cruel.</p><p> </p><p>He takes his wet clothes with him, because Tom never actually told him what to do and leaving them in a heap on the floor seems undignified. The house is ridiculously big with far too many corridors that twist and turn; without Tom’s instructions, Harry would definitely get lost. As it is, he makes it to the kitchen relatively unscathed– Tom never has to know about the rug he tripped over on his way to the stairs.</p><p> </p><p>Tom stands in the corner of the room with his back to Harry. He has changed into an identical pair of trousers and a tight fitting t-shirt. Harry’s gaze lingers here, admiring the way he fills it out, the way the sleeves stretch across his biceps. Shit, this was definitely a bad idea.</p><p> </p><p>He clears his throat and shuffles his feet, feeling stupid when the tracksuit bottoms drag over the floor. He should roll them up, but that would attract even more attention to it. </p><p> </p><p>“There you are,” Tom says with an easy smile. He looks so relaxed here that a knot of tension loosens in Harry’s chest and he’s drawn closer. “I made you a hot chocolate, if you want it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you.” Harry offers him a rare, genuine smile. The kitchen is bare, albeit sparkling clean, but the area around Tom is littered with cocoa powder and spilt milk. Harry wonders how often Tom is actually home - if this even is his home.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t see any tinsel,” Harry says. “Where are you keeping it all?”</p><p> </p><p>Tom takes a sip of his own drink - coffee, Harry thinks, black - and his chest rumbles with a laugh. “Would you believe me if I said I just haven’t put it up yet?”</p><p> </p><p>“Not for a second.”</p><p> </p><p>Tom’s fingers stroke through his fringe to tame it into place. It’s still damp and soft looking. Harry wishes he could reach out and touch instead, but he keeps his free hand stubbornly at his side and takes a big sip of hot chocolate. It doesn’t even burn the roof of his mouth - how has Tom managed to get it so perfect?</p><p> </p><p>“I gave it away,” Tom says eventually, and Harry frowns.</p><p> </p><p>“All of it? Who wanted <em> that </em>much tinsel?”</p><p> </p><p>Tom smiles again, but there is something sad about it this time, in the down turned corners of his mouth, the dullness in his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>“There’s a children’s home, not so far from here. An orphanage. They don’t have much funding for non essentials. I try to… help, where I can.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry blinks. He puts his mug down carefully on the table and scratches his neck.</p><p> </p><p>“You– uh, you help out?” Harry prompts. He hopes he doesn’t sound as surprised as he feels. Has Harry been treating Tom unfairly this whole time? He shouldn’t let Sirius affect his judgement and he knows it, but he’d seemed so genuine here, and Harry’s first meetings with Tom didn’t exactly shine a positive light on him. Guilt stirs in the pit of Harry’s stomach. </p><p> </p><p>“Just during the holidays.” Tom turns around. With his back to him, Harry can no longer see the way expressions flit across Tom’s face, lightning fast. “They couldn’t– they can’t afford gifts, or decorations, or anything like that. It doesn’t seem… right.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry creeps closer, hand hovering over Tom’s shoulder. He draws it back to his chest at the last moment, and says softly, “It doesn’t. It’s good– that you help, I mean. It’s kind.”</p><p> </p><p>Tom scoffs. “I’m not sure <em> kind </em> is the right word for me.”</p><p> </p><p>This time, Harry doesn’t hesitate to touch. He places his hand over Tom’s where it’s curled around the edge of the counter. Tom sucks in a sharp breath but otherwise doesn’t react. </p><p> </p><p>“I think you’re kind. You wouldn’t help, if you weren’t.”</p><p> </p><p>Tom laughs, brittle and harsh. “It was entirely selfish, I assure you. I was only doing what I would have wanted done, back when I…”</p><p> </p><p>Harry had suspected, but he didn’t want to say anything, and he didn’t want to force Tom to say anything either. This isn’t a confession, but it’s probably as close to one as Tom can get. Harry’s heart aches for him. He longs to press closer, to wrap his arms around Tom’s waist and kiss the nape of Tom’s neck, even if he has to stand on tiptoes to do it. The sudden urge is overwhelming and he has to bite the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood just to distract himself.</p><p> </p><p>“That <em> is </em> kindness,” Harry tells him, quiet but insistent. “It’s not selfish to help others when you gain nothing from it.” Tom’s back is stiff and, although Harry can’t see his face, he’s sure those handsome features are set into a frown. He decides to drop the subject for now, even though it’s the closest Harry has come to <em> knowing </em>Tom since they first met.</p><p> </p><p>“Didn’t you invite me to decorate this place, before? You asked for help putting that tinsel up.”</p><p> </p><p>Tom half turns, lips pulled into a crooked, confused smile. “You said no,” he says.</p><p> </p><p>“What would you have done if I hadn’t? Would you just have bought another shop out of their decorations to give away?”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course not.” Tom is smiling properly now, eyes bright again. “You think I’d be unfaithful to your store? I’d just have had to keep coming back until I had enough.”</p><p> </p><p>“And that’s the only reason, of course,” Harry says. </p><p> </p><p>They’re so close, now that Tom is facing him. His pupils are blown wide and Harry…</p><p> </p><p>Harry can’t help himself anymore.</p><p> </p><p>Tom’s hair is soft and feathery at the nape of his neck. His cheek is warm against Harry’s cupped palm. He tastes like coffee and Harry wonders what Tom tastes on his tongue.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” Harry has time to say, before Tom presses forward again and wraps his hands around Harry’s waist, and then Harry can’t even think. He’s floating, eyes closed, Tom’s hands on him the only grounding force. Tom forces a desperate whimper out of him and then Harry is being walked backwards, slowly but surely, until he hits the kitchen counter. </p><p> </p><p>“Shit,” Tom murmurs. A string of saliva connects their lips, and it would be gross if it wasn’t so fucking hot.</p><p> </p><p>“Shut up, get back here,” Harry gasps, and Tom is there in seconds. His hands slide down Harry’s sides slowly, over the curve of his hips and then under his thighs. Harry squeaks in surprise when Tom lifts him suddenly, arms wrapping around Tom’s neck in a suffocating hold just to stay upright. Tom sits him on the counter and kisses him again, deeper now, filthy. Harry digs his fingers into Tom’s shoulder with a groan. </p><p> </p><p>Tom’s hands land on Harry’s knees and slip further, kneading the inside of his thighs. Harry’s hips jump as spreads his legs and hooks an ankle around the back of Tom’s knee, drawing him closer. He’s hard in Tom’s trousers, and that thought alone is enough to have him crying out.</p><p> </p><p>“Harry,” Tom breathes, eyes wild. “Can I–”</p><p> </p><p><em> “Yes,” </em>Harry nods manically. “Please. Anything.”</p><p> </p><p>Right now, he can’t remember a single reason not to do this. He had thought this was a bad idea, hadn’t he? Now, with Tom’s mouth on his and Tom’s hand rubbing his cock over his pants, he can’t imagine why.</p><p> </p><p>Tom works one hand inside Harry’s tracksuits and wraps around his cock, uses the other to pull Harry’s head to the side. He bites Harry’s neck sharp and sudden and then licks over the spot, works his way down to his collarbone with a trail of wet, open mouthed kisses. Harry whines and squirms in place, trying to move his hips, to fuck Tom’s fist.</p><p> </p><p>“Just this once,” Tom says through gritted teeth. “Just this once I’ll let you get away with that, but after this I want to take my time with you. Spread you out and take you slowly. We’re never going to rush through this again, understand?”</p><p> </p><p>The words barely make it past the fog of arousal that clouds Harry’s mind, but he nods anyway, because it seems to be what Tom wants from him. Tom jerks Harry with tight, confident strokes. He makes no move to touch himself, even though the line of his own cock is clearly visible through his trousers. Harry sobs and buries his face in Tom’s neck.</p><p> </p><p>“Tom.” He shudders. “Tom, I’m gonna–”</p><p> </p><p>“You need to come, darling?” Tom presses a kiss to the top Harry’s head, a surprisingly chaste gesture compared to the filth pouring out of his mouth. Harry jerks his head.</p><p> </p><p>“Go on then, Harry. Come all over yourself. It’s alright, sweetheart, I’ve got you.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry’s head falls back with a groan. Tom strokes him through his orgasm, keeps him upright with an arm wrapped around his waist. He must look utterly debauched: lips red and spit-slick, legs spread as far as his pants will let him, wine-stain bruises blooming all over his neck. He slumps against Tom’s body, eyes slipping closed.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck,” Tom hisses. “You’re filthy,” and Harry only realises that he’s jerking off until he forces his eyes open again and looks down. Seeing Tom with his belt hanging open and his trousers undone, fisting his dick as he holds Harry against his chest, might be a religious experience. </p><p> </p><p>Harry is just about to slither off the counter and kneel on the floor when Tom takes him by surprise. He grabs Harry’s throat and in one quick motion, jerks him forward into a brutal kiss. It’s nowhere near tight enough to do any harm or actually hurt him, but Harry’s heart races anyway. Being tugged around like that is something Harry has never experienced before. Tom is probably strong enough to carry him around with one arm. Being at the receiving end of all that strength, all that power, feeling Tom’s fingers twitch against his neck as he fights to restrain himself… Harry feels his cock twitch valiantly against his thigh. Tom is a fucking <em> beast, </em>and all this time he’s been holding back for Harry’s sake.</p><p> </p><p>This, Harry decides, was definitely a good idea. He should have done this sooner. He should have done this the first time they met. <em> Sorry Sirius, </em> he thinks, <em> but it turns out Tom Riddle isn’t so bad after all. </em></p><p> </p><p>“Fuck,” Tom grunts, and Harry straightens up. He bats Tom’s hand out of the way and strokes Tom from the base to the tip just as he starts to come. Tom’s head drops forward and he bites Harry’s shoulder to muffle a groan. Personally, Harry would love to hear him lose control, but he isn’t complaining either way.</p><p> </p><p>He gives Tom a moment to catch his breath. It seems rude to wipe his hands off on Tom’s borrowed clothes, but there are no tissues in sight. Tom’s hand is still wrapped loosely around Harry’s throat and he must be able to feel Harry’s pulse jump under his fingertips.  </p><p> </p><p>“Tom,” Harry prompts gently. Tom’s chest heaves a few more times, and then he pulls away. He doesn’t say anything, but Harry mourns the closeness.</p><p> </p><p>“Wow,” he says, and hastens to tuck himself away and do up his belt again.</p><p> </p><p>“Um. Yeah.” Harry’s face feels heated. He pushes his glasses up his nose with his clean hand, even though they hadn’t fallen down, and then waves his messy fingers at Tom. “I should probably…”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course.” Tom steps away completely. Harry is abruptly cold.</p><p> </p><p>Harry runs his hands under the tap for far too long. For some reason he is reluctant to turn around. Tom’s gaze on him feels heavy but not suffocating, not oppressive. If anything it’s comforting, like the weight of a blanket. <em> Harry </em> is the problem. He told himself he wouldn’t do this, and now–</p><p> </p><p>“Harry,” Tom murmurs. Harry’s shoulders curl forward protectively and he dries his hands on his trousers.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s up?” He asks, chirpy.</p><p> </p><p>“Harry,” Tom says again. “I want–”</p><p> </p><p>They’re interrupted by a sudden buzz that seems deafening in the otherwise awkward, tense silence. Harry’s hand shoots out, reaching for the distraction with fumbling hands before he realises that this is not actually his phone.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh, sorry. It’s for you. I mean, of course it’s for you. It’s your phone.”</p><p> </p><p>Tom takes the phone but doesn’t answer it. It rings insistently in his curled fist but his eyes don’t leave Harry’s for a second.</p><p> </p><p>“You should answer that,” Harry says, turning away. “It might be important. And then… and then, could you take me back, please?”</p><p> </p><p>With his back to him, Harry misses the way Tom’s face falls.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s alright if you can’t,” he continues, rambling obliviously. “I can probably walk from here. Or maybe, if you could call me a taxi? I’ll pay you back. I just– I should really be getting home now, I think. Thank you for the hot chocolate and the clothes, but I should go home.”</p><p> </p><p>He picks up his abandoned mug of hot chocolate just for something to do with his hands, but when he brings it to his lips he finds it's gone cold.</p><p> </p><p>“Harry,” Tom repeats, and this time he is much closer, hovering just over Harry’s shoulder. “Don’t go.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry stills. “What?” He asks.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t go back. Stay here tonight.”</p><p> </p><p>Tom got what he wanted. Harry slept with him - not all the way, sure, but close enough, and Tom is attractive enough to get anybody he wants in bed with him. He should be ushering Harry out the door by now, but he isn’t. </p><p> </p><p>He wants Harry to stay. </p><p> </p><p>The buzzing stops. Tom ignores the call.</p><p> </p><p>Warmth blooms in Harry’s chest. <em> Tom wants him to stay. </em>It’s tempting. God, it shouldn’t be so tempting but it is. Harry can imagine it perfectly - he and Tom could eat dinner together, could curl up on the sofa and watch a Christmas movie that Tom would complain about all the way through, could go to bed together…</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t,” Harry says in a strangled voice. If he stays tonight, he’ll end up sleeping with Tom for real, and as much as he wants to, he wants to take things slow even more. There’s still so much he doesn’t know about Tom, so much he wants to find out.</p><p> </p><p>Sue him, but Harry is a romantic at heart. He wants at least one proper date that doesn’t involve Tom spending a ridiculous amount of money on him.</p><p> </p><p>Of course, he can’t say any of this to Tom. It would be horribly embarrassing. So instead he shrugs, and turns around, and says, “Sirius will be home soon. No offence, but I kind of don’t want him to see you drop me off, you know?”</p><p> </p><p>He’s aiming for lighthearted, teasing, a <em> joke, </em>but Tom’s features shutter as quickly as if Harry had screamed at him. He doesn’t look amused or angry. He just looks blank.</p><p> </p><p>“Right,” he says. “Of course. My mistake.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry shuffles and looks at the floor. “I could take a taxi, if it’s too much trouble. If you have somewhere to be.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tom says briskly, and offers nothing else. He heads for the front door straight away, and Harry’s stomach flips with worry. What changed so suddenly? One second Tom is asking him to stay the night, the next he can’t wait to get rid of Harry.</p><p> </p><p>“Tom,” Harry says, grabbing his bundle of damp clothes and hurrying after him. “What about your clothes?”</p><p> </p><p>Tom stops so suddenly that Harry almost runs into the back of him. He pinches the bridge of his nose, as though Harry is just another irritating presence to be dealt with.</p><p> </p><p>“Keep them,” he says. Harry doesn’t bother arguing.</p><p> </p><p>The car ride is tense and silent. He pulls over at the top of Harry’s road and only hums in response when Harry says goodbye. The car dawdles against the pavement until Harry is at his door, nudging the snowman aside and ringing the bell. </p><p> </p><p>“Harry!” Sirius says. “You’re late back.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry. I… went to go see a friend. I didn’t mean to stay so long.”</p><p> </p><p>“Harry…” Sirius sounds hesitant and Harry freezes, paranoid that somehow Sirius knows. Maybe he saw the car, or maybe Tom said something at work. But then he smiles quizzically and says, “Did you do something new to the garden?”</p><p> </p><p>It isn’t until he’s alone in his room that Harry slips a hand into the pocket of Tom’s tracksuits and finds a phone number, hastily scribbled down onto a town piece of paper. He must have put it in there when he gave them to Harry, before the awkward end of their time together.</p><p> </p><p>Harry swallows past the lump in his throat. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p>In the end, it takes him two days to cave.</p><p> </p><p>He saves Tom’s number into his phone - safely retrieved along with his keys, without anyone needing to smash any windows - and then looks at it blankly for another ten minutes. He could be making a mistake here. He <em> thought </em> Tom wanted to spend more time with him, but Harry will never recover from the humiliation if he gets ghosted or sent to voicemail or just plain rejected. He should have known better than to get involved with Tom at all - men like that are dangerous in their indifference.</p><p> </p><p>But Tom hadn’t <em> seemed </em>indifferent, is the thing. That conversation in the kitchen had been the first hint of a past that Harry had seen. It can’t have been a lie - Harry refuses to believe it.</p><p> </p><p><em> Fuck it, </em>he thinks, and hits call.</p><p> </p><p>Tom picks up on the third ring. Harry counts them out with a rising sense of dread that washes away as soon as he hears Tom’s voice. The emotional whiplash leaves his brain scrambled.</p><p> </p><p>“Harry?” Tom prompts after a few seconds of silence.</p><p> </p><p>“How did you know it was me?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t give this number out to many people,” Tom says calmly. “You’re the only person I don’t have saved as a contact.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” Harry says, feeling stupid and dangerously special. “That’s… nice.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Nice? What is he saying? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Listen.” He pushes forward. “I was wondering if maybe you wanted to go shopping with me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Shopping?” Tom sounds vaguely interested, which has to be a good sign.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Christmas shopping, I mean. I thought it might be fun to go together.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not buying gifts for anybody,” Tom says. “But I assume you’ll have quite a selection of admirers.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry laughs, because quite frankly that suggestion is ridiculous, and Tom<em> must </em>be joking. “Nope,” he says. “Just a few friends, and Sirius, of course. He’s practically impossible to buy for.”</p><p> </p><p>Static fizzes over the line. Tom says, “Oh.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry taps his fingers against his thigh. “I thought we could go for coffee afterwards, if you wanted? On me, this time.”</p><p> </p><p>Somehow, despite all of his earlier anxieties, Harry isn’t expecting the blunt, unapologetic, “No,” that Tom gives.</p><p> </p><p>Harry blinks. “Do you not like coffee?” He asks, voice wavering. “We could do something else, if you’d rather. I went to this really cute cafe once with–”</p><p> </p><p><em> “No,” </em> Tom repeats sharply, and Harry snaps his mouth shut. He isn’t going to ask again. He isn’t going to embarrass himself by pursuing this. Tom got what he wanted from him and now he clearly has no further use for Harry. It’s what Harry had suspected at the start, but he’d allowed himself to be distracted, to be <em> wooed </em>.  </p><p> </p><p>“Right,” he says. “Okay.” </p><p> </p><p>He hangs up.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p>“Are you sure you’re going to be alright here on your own?” Sirius asks for the third time. Harry mutes the television - he gave up on whatever cheesy Christmas movie this is half an hour ago - and rolls his eyes dramatically.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m twenty, Sirius. I can handle one night unsupervised, believe it or not.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know,” Sirius says shiftily. “But… Christmas Eve?”</p><p> </p><p>Harry’s smile softens. “It’s only a day,” he says. “Besides, you haven’t seen Remus in weeks. Tell him he better have a souvenir for me, by the way.”</p><p> </p><p>Remus and Sirius have been together for a few years now, friends for years before that, and Harry has grown up with both of them acting as surrogate parents. He loves Remus, and he loves Sirius, and he loves that they’re happy together. He just can’t stand to see them be sappy and romantic in front of him when the sting of Tom’s rejection is still so fresh in his mind. When they’d asked if he wanted to go with them on what would undoubtedly be a date, where he would be an awkward third wheel at best and a hindrance at worst, he’d declined gracefully.</p><p> </p><p>A night in is exactly what he needs to get over this stupid, painful crush. Either that or a one night stand, according to Hermoine, but he’s not sure what his options will be like on Christmas Eve. Nobody will compare to Tom, anyway. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll tell him you said hello,” Sirius says. “And that he’s invited for lunch tomorrow.”</p><p> </p><p>“Bonus points if he brings French wine.”</p><p> </p><p>Sirius laughs under his breath, and then his expression melts into something softer and more fond. “I love you, Harry,” he says, and kisses Harry’s forehead. “And I’m proud of you. Your parents would be proud too. If you change your mind, you know you can always call me. Okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Harry leans into the touch and sighs contentedly. “I know,” he says. “I love you too. Now go, have fun.”</p><p> </p><p>Sirius hangs around for a few more minutes, checking his hair and his clothes for the hundredth time, before he disappears in a flurry of aftershave. The house is eerily quiet in his absence. Harry turns the volume on again and tries to lose himself in a carbon copy of the Christmas film he watched yesterday. It’s <em> not </em>sad, he assures himself, that he’s imagining Tom’s arm around his shoulders, and wondering what disparaging remarks he would make.</p><p> </p><p>Harry doesn’t know how much time passes exactly. Time is counted in how many stupid festive films he gets through. He munches his way through an entire packet of biscuits and is contemplating whether to start on Sirius’ mulled wine without him when a knock at the door startles him.</p><p> </p><p>Several knocks, actually, over and over again, getting louder and angrier and more insistent with every passing second. Harry sits up so suddenly that he gives himself a head rush.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, <em> okay,” </em>he calls out. “I’m coming! Relax!”</p><p> </p><p>Harry has no idea who to expect, but Tom is probably at the bottom of his list. He stumbles back, speechless, when the man himself bursts through Harry’s doorway and marches through the house. His fists are clenched and his hair is messy. In comparison to his usual self, he’s a mess.</p><p> </p><p>“Pack your things. I’m getting you out of his house.”</p><p> </p><p>Harry is too astonished to answer. He watches Tom come to a stop in the middle of the living room and then look around, taking in the quaint furniture, the small television in the corner, the worrying number of stains on the carpet. He thinks of Tom’s beautiful mansion and his cheeks burn.</p><p> </p><p><em> “What?” </em>He splutters. “What the fuck?”</p><p> </p><p>“Sirius Black is cheating on you,” he says, and Harry doesn’t miss the way his eyes sparkle with glee. “I saw him tonight with another man. I won’t insult you with the details, but please, take my word for it. They were very romantically involved.”</p><p> </p><p>When Harry still doesn’t respond, Tom’s face settles into something a little more appropriate for the situation. He rests a hand on Harry’s shoulder and tilts his chin up with an intensity Harry has never known anyone else to have.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m… very sorry,” he says. “I understand that this is difficult to hear. You can stay with me for as long as you need.”</p><p> </p><p>“Tom,” Harry says, inhales, shakes his head. “I’m not moving out. Sirius is my <em> godfather. </em>He’s basically my uncle. Why the fuck did you think we were dating?”</p><p> </p><p>Harry expects Tom’s face to be carefully blank again, but instead his eyes are wide and his mouth is hanging open a little.</p><p> </p><p>“You– but you said– but he…” Tom’s eyes go distant, cloudy with a dawning realisation. Harry watches with pursed lips. Eventually, Tom says, “Oh.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yep.” Harry pops the ‘p’. “Is this why you acted so weird whenever I brought him up? Were you <em> jealous?” </em></p><p> </p><p>Tom grits his teeth. “I thought you were choosing him,” he says, frowning like the words were dragged out of him. </p><p> </p><p>“Wait. So you thought I cheated on him? When we…” he coughs. “You know.”</p><p> </p><p>“I thought perhaps… you thought it was a mistake.”</p><p> </p><p>“And,” Harry says, softer now, edging closer, something a little like hope creeping into his voice. Things are starting to make sense, in a stupid way. “When I called you, afterwards, and you said no. Was that also because–”</p><p> </p><p>“Shit,” Tom breathes, eyes snapping to Harry. He sinks down slowly onto the sofa, back ramrod straight, and curls his hands around his knees. “I suppose I’ve messed this up spectacularly, haven’t I?”</p><p> </p><p>Despite everything - the pain of these last few days, Tom’s sense of entitlement, the fact that he seemed so delighted to have a reason to break Harry and his imagined-other-boyfriend up - a laugh bubbles out of Harry. He slumps down next to Tom, close enough for their knees to touch, and nudges their shoulders together.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re an idiot,” he says. “Total dumbass. I can’t believe you.”</p><p> </p><p>Tom turns to him curiously. “Oh, yeah?” He says with the barest hint of a smile. “You didn’t seem to mind the other day.”</p><p> </p><p>“That was back when I didn’t know how much of an idiot you were.”</p><p> </p><p>“If it’s any consolation, I think you’re stubborn and petty.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, it means a lot,” Harry says, laughing. This certainly isn’t where he saw his night going, but he’s not complaining.</p><p> </p><p>Tom tilts his head, and Harry spots the way Tom’s eyes flicker down to his lips. His tongue darts out instinctively and Tom’s pupils widen. </p><p> </p><p>“So,” he starts. “Misunderstandings aside, am I forgiven?”</p><p> </p><p>Harry‘s lips twitch. “What for?”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re <em> sadistic, </em>you know that?” Tom pokes at the sensitive spot under Harry’s ribs until he giggles and squirms away. “Are you really going to make me say it?”</p><p> </p><p>“I think you should say <em> something.” </em>Harry juts his chin up. “Since you’ve been such an dick.”</p><p> </p><p>Tom brushes his lips over Harry’s cheek, his jaw, the slope of his nose. “I’m very sorry,” he murmurs. “Let me make it up to you?”</p><p> </p><p>Harry’s voice hitches when he says, “How?” The wicked grin Tom sends his way suggests he heard it too.</p><p> </p><p>“I was thinking coffee,” he answers. “If the offer still stands, that is. You can get the drinks if you really want to, but there’s an adorable little skating rink nearby that I absolutely must take you to.”</p><p> </p><p>“You know, I think you’re supposed to kiss someone when it gets to midnight on Christmas Eve.” Harry loops an arm around Tom’s neck.</p><p> </p><p>“No, I think that’s New Years.”</p><p> </p><p>“We can do it then too,” Harry says, and pulls Tom into a kiss. </p><p> </p><p>If Tom just so happens to still be there when Sirius gets back, Harry decides, Sirius is not allowed to be mad. It is Christmas, after all.</p><p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading! &lt;3</p><p>I’m on tumblr @tiigixox so feel free to come scream about Tom/Harry with me :’)</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Let me know what you think! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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